


An Angel, A Demon and a Holiday

by maddmaddworld



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, Fluff, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), and a little bit of anxiety and insecurity, because crowley is crowley, holiday fluff, probably nothing but fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maddmaddworld/pseuds/maddmaddworld
Summary: 31 Days of Ineffables advent challenge. Or, 31 days of Crowley and Aziraphale being soft and fluffy. OR, really, the 4 days I actually completed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	1. Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tempts. Aziraphale misses the point.  
> 31 Days of Ineffables, day one: Mistletoe

Crowley growls in a way that suggests he’s thinking too hard. Aziraphale can hear the cogs in his brain working as he looks over from the bookshelf he’s been cataloguing. He raises his eyes at Crowley when he notices what the demon is holding. “Mistletoe? I don’t see the appeal.” 

“Huh,” is the response, as Crowley spins, searching for the perfect hanging spot. 

“I mean, if I wanted to kiss someone I’d just do it, there isn’t any need for subterfuge.” 

Crowley fixes Aziraphale with an incredulous stare. 

The angel balks. “What?” 

“It took you over six thousand years to kiss me.” 

“That was different.” 

Crowley grins. “Oh? How, exactly?” Aziraphale has his full attention now…not that he ever _doesn’t_. Still, Crowley takes great pleasure in these flirty moments. 

Aziraphale points to Crowley. “Demon.” Then to himself. “Angel.” 

Crowley’s eyes drop to his feet, right along with his heart. “Thought we were past that,” he mumbles, turning away from Aziraphale and setting the mistletoe down on the closest table. He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and very carefully _not_ looking at Aziraphale. 

“We are, darling,” Aziraphale assures him, “but you must admit our circumstances are quite different than the average human with a crush in the month of December.” 

“S’not a crush.” Crowley is still mumbling. He briefly wonders how this went downhill so quickly. He just wanted to tempt Aziraphale to kiss him. This should not have been difficult, given how often it happens on a daily basis. 

Aziraphale tuts, crossing the room to take his hands. “I wasn’t suggesting anything, my love.” 

Crowley firmly shakes himself, letting his insecurities fall from his shoulders and refocusing on the angel— _his_ angel, who is real, alive, and pulling their twined hands up to press tender kisses to Crowley’s fingertips. 

“I only meant that it took us a bit longer than the average couple,” he says, holding Crowley’s hands to his chest, “and that if I want to kiss you, I don’t need a plant to suggest it.” Aziraphale smiles, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s cheek to drive the point home. 

“Right, I know. Sorry.” 

“No apologies needed, Crowley. I love you. I wish you wouldn’t doubt that.” 

Crowley nods. “I don’t, not really. Just get stuck in my head sssometimes. Still think we should hang the mistletoe, though.” 

“Any excuse to kiss you, darling,” he chuckles, letting Crowley’s hands go to return to his cataloguing. 

Crowley blushes crimson and snaps his fingers, sending the mistletoe to hang in the bookshop’s doorway. He grabs Aziraphale’s hand before he can get too far away and pulls him to the doorway, right under the mistletoe, before leaning in to kiss him. When they part, Aziraphale is laughing. Crowley, satisfied with the outcome of his temptation, kisses him again. And again.


	2. Snow Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley hates the snow. Aziraphale tries to cope.  
> 31 Days of Ineffables, day two: Snow

“Oh, hot sand. Warm beach! Shirtless angel! Yes. This—Aziraphale, I love you. THIS is my kind of winter weather!” An angel and a demon have just stepped onto a beach in Tahiti. 

Crowley is positively beaming, and Aziraphale cherishes every second of it. Still, he can’t quite bring himself to the same level of joy as his husband. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, my dear,” he replies truthfully, if not with much gusto. _Don’t be a prat, Aziraphale—look at this demon you love, see how happy he is, and suck it up_ , he thinks woefully. 

“Really, angel, thank you so much for doing this. I absolutely _hate_ London in the winter. You’ve no idea how happy this makes me.” Crowley is digging his bare toes into the warm sand. He raises his face to the sun and sighs contentedly. 

  
“I think I might, dear,” he replies, leaning forward to kiss Crowley sweetly. “It is wonderful to see you warm—I thought you might freeze to death with how bad the weather has been this year.” 

“I love you, Aziraphale. This is going to be the best Christmas we’ve ever had!” He doesn’t wait for a response—he's already running (inasmuch as a demon who doesn’t fully understand the concept of human hips can run) down the beach to find a place for their umbrella and towel. 

Aziraphale sighs and follows Crowley, already stressing over the sand that will end up in his book and his shoes. “...Yes, of course, my dear.” 

**_2 Days Later_ **

Aziraphale is quiet. Too quiet. Crowley is pacing. They’re holed up in their beautiful hotel room in beautiful Tahiti with beautiful cocktails served in beautiful coconuts, and somehow—it’s not perfect. 

Aziraphale hasn’t smiled in over 24 hours. He’s going through the motions. He holds Crowley’s hand and kisses him when the moment seems right—but it’s forced, and filled with a sadness that Crowley can’t seem to remove. So, he panics. 

“I’ve screwed up, somehow,” Crowley starts. He ends his pacing to face Aziraphale, whose book falls out of his lap at the declaration. 

“I--Crowley--” His face scrunches in that way that tells Crowley he was right—he's done something to mess up this perfect trip. The problem is, he doesn’t even know what he’s done. 

“I’d rather not waste time trying to figure out what I've done since I can’t remember doing anything that would upset you, so if you could please tell me what it is I've cocked up so I can fix it, we can get on with our trip.” Crowley breathes heavily. _Good job,_ he thinks, _you used your words. Gold stars for the demon._

“I...” Aziraphale pauses. 

Crowley waits. 

“It’s just...” 

Crowley’s nerves get the best of him and he shouts, “Spit it OUT, Aziraphale! What’ve I done?” 

“Nothing!” he shouts back, and then, softer, "Nothing, my love.” 

“Then what?” _Okay._ He isn’t the one causing Aziraphale’s current mood, but _something_ is and he’s hiding it and Crowley no longer handles secrets well—not when it comes to his husband. 

“I...oh, Crowley. I’m so sorry. I absolutely hate it here.” 

That is not what he expected. “You what? This trip was your idea!” 

“I know! You were so miserable in London—and you were freezing to death, and you don’t wear sensible clothes so you couldn’t stay warm! You absolutely hate the winter, but I—I love Christmas! I love the snow and the lights; I want nothing more than to sit by the window in my shop and read and look at the people shopping and playing in the snow. I miss my cocoa and decorating my tree. I thought I could do this—for you—it's only a holiday, for goodness sake, but I miss the snow. I miss it so much, and I’m so sorry—I know that makes me a horrible angel and an even more horrible husband and I just--” 

Crowley moves swiftly downward and cuts him off with a kiss. “You daft angel.” 

“I--what?” 

“That’s all you had to say, Aziraphale. Do you really think I’d deny you your Christmas just because I’m cold?” 

Aziraphale huffs, reaching up to stroke Crowley’s cheek gently. “It’s not always about what's best for me—you deserve to have a happy Christmas, too, you know.” 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Aziraphale--I am my happiest when I’m with you. We’ll go home. You’ll drink your cocoa and I’ll wrap myself in a blanket and cuddle with you until the spring. Why would I ever complain about having a reason to be closer to you? Really.” 

There are tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. “You really are too good to me, you know. And it’s not that I hate Tahiti—I would love to come back, just--” 

“Just not at Christmas.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighs. He kisses Crowley’s cheek quickly and then pulls away to rescue the fallen book from the ground. 

“Come on, Angel. Let’s go home. I’ll even let you smother me in your sweaters and blankets. Can you just promise me one thing, please?” 

“Of course,” he replies with the first real smile he’s felt in days. He’s already got the suitcase out and begun packing. 

Crowley uses his words again. “Do not keep these types of things from me. I thought I’d messed something up—I thought I was ruining this.” 

  
Aziraphale turns, stepping to Crowley and wrapping his arms around him tightly. “Darling,” he starts, kissing Crowley’s cheek and chin and neck, "Haven’t you realized by now that there’s nothing you could do that would push me away?” 

“I hope not, my snow angel.” 

Aziraphale smiles.


	3. Oh Nuts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the ballet.
> 
> 31 Days of Ineffables--day 3: Nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short and sweet and mostly dialogue...props to my husband for inspiring me at the last minute.

“One hundred and twenty-seven.” 

“It can’t possibly be that many!” 

Crowley looks up from his cozy spot in Aziraphale’s lap, but doesn’t move. “One hundred and twenty-seven, beginning with opening night, December 18th, 1892.” 

Aziraphale, who is stroking Crowley’s hair with one hand and sipping tea with the other, considers this. “I suppose that’s accurate—I am shocked you remember the exact date!” 

“Wikipedia, angel.” 

“Wiki--I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.” 

“Not important,” Crowley laughs, "You spent the night canoodling with Tchaikovsky, I sulked, the ballet was alright. Did a temptation on a priest while you were flirting. The point is that we’ve seen _The Nutcracker_ one hundred and twenty-seven times and I, for one, have had enough of it.” 

“It’s a classic!” 

“A classic we’ve seen too many times. Come on, angel, pick something else. Anything else.” Crowley takes this opportunity to grab Aziraphale’s hand, which has rid itself of the teacup, and kiss his palm. He snuggles further into the couch and into the warmth of his angel. 

Aziraphale is growing more frustrated by the minute. “It’s tradition!” 

Crowley balks. “Tradition?” 

“Yes! We’ve seen _The Nutcracker_ together every year since its debut! Even when we weren’t on the best of terms, there was still _The Nutcracker_.” 

“Angel, I--”   


“I suppose all traditions end at some point, I’ll just--” 

Crowley sits up suddenly. “Get the tickets.” 

“What?” 

“Get the damn ticketsss, Aziraphale,” he hisses. 

“You just said--” 

“I was wrong. Get them. Whenever you want, I’ll go,” he replies, breathing heavily. He tries desperately to force the tears he feels coming on back into his eyes. It does not work. _Tradition. We have a tradition,_ he thinks. He had no idea. 

“Are you crying?” 

“No!” Crowley jumps up from the couch and stalks to the front door, grabbing his coat and overly fashionable scarf. 

“Crowley...” 

“Get the stupid tickets for the stupid ballet, Aziraphale. I’m going for a walk.” He turns back to kiss the angel on the cheek before rushing out the door. 

“Well, that was something,” says Aziraphale. 


	4. Old Fashioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas Eve visit with Tracy. There will be alcohol.
> 
> Day 4: Cranberry  
> **My computer is on the fritz and I've tried to fix this formatting 4 times but it's not working so it looks like it was edited by a 5-year old. Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was heavily influenced by my intense desire to drink this cocktail:  
> https://www.gastronomblog.com/christmas-old-fashioned/
> 
> Also, Confident!Aziraphale is my jam.

It’s three o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day. Crowley, sporting black silk pajamas and a black apron, is curled over his kitchen island, tinkering with a bottle of whiskey, fresh cranberries, bitters, and very fashionable ice. A tablet is to his left, playing a recipe video for a Cranberry Old Fashioned. 

  
Why is Crowley making fancy cocktails at three o’clock in the morning on Christmas Day, you ask? Well, it started like this:

**_ (The previous evening, around 8:00PM, at the home of  _ ** **_ Witch _ ** **_ Hunter  _ ** **_ Sargent _ ** **_ Shadwell) _ **

“Well, love, you’re just so old fashioned!” Madame (formerly Madame?) Tracy exclaims, giggling. She points at  Aziraphale and her drink sloshes out of her glass.  Aziraphale works a quick miracle to stop it from hitting the ground.

“I suppose I am, but how is that of any consequence?”

“Look at that beautiful man,  Aziraphale !” Tracy exclaims, pointing to the kitchen where Crowley can be seen making cocktails.  ( Aziraphale has been very  well liquored since Crowley discovered his new hobby: attempting to recreate or better every craft cocktail of the last 30 years.)  “He’s all hips and fashion and  _ hair _ . You’ve got to modernize your look to stand next to that gorgeous creature!”

“He’s not  _ that _ fashionable.”

“Oh yes he is. Sex on legs, that one! You better hold tight! If you’re not careful, he’ll find some gorgeous younger man and leave you and your tartan in the dust!”

Tracy is drunk. Shadwell has already passed out. His feet can be seen from the other side of the coffee table. The rest of him is probably down there somewhere as well. It’s probably time for the angel and the demon to move on for the night. Nevertheless, here they are, so we continue on.

“What are you lot on about?” Crowley asks, passing  Aziraphale his drink before sitting down. Instead of taking his own space on the couch, Crowley throws his arm around  Aziraphale’s back and his legs over the angel’s lap. He plants a sloppy kiss on the angel’s cheek before taking a sip of his bourbon.  Aziraphale wraps his free arm around Crowley’s back and squeezes his side affectionately. 

“Tracy here is telling me that in order to keep you happy, I need to update my wardrobe,”  Aziraphale snickers. He drops his eyes to his drink . “Oh, cranberries—that’s  a  new one ,” he mutters before taking a sip.

Crowley growls loudly. “Are you kidding? Tracy, what the bloody heaven would you say that for?” 

“You’re just so well dressed and handsome, Mr. Crowley, I only said that if  Aziraphale wanted to keep you from finding a younger man--”

“Younger man? We aren’t even human!” Crowley cuts in. 

“--that he should consider updating his clothes to something more modern. Classy. He can still be fussy,” she shifts her blurry focus to  Aziraphale , “Just be fussy in  _ this _ century’s clothes, love!”

Aziraphale can feel Crowley stiffen, posture ready to snap a defensive attack at Tracy.  H e squeezes Crowley’s side a bit harder than is strictly necessary before turning his gaze to Tracy. “Let me make a few things perfectly clear, Tracy—Firstly, while I appreciate your attempt to modernize me, I am in no way ashamed of who I am. I am old fashioned and particular and  _ fussy,  _ as you say—and Crowley loves me because of those things—not in spite of them. Secondly, he would never leave me for a human. Perish the thought! Thirdly, he certainly is sex on legs, but I am the only one who gets to reap the benefits of that.”

“I meant no disrespect, Mr. Fell,” Tracy slurs, sinking further into her chair and letting her eyes slip closed.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and lets out a  distinguished “ Hmpfh .”  When he shifts his focus to the demon in his lap,  Crowley is  grinning.  He l eans forward to put his drink down on the coffee table  and  kisses  Aziraphale , slow and sweet, and probably not  entirely  appropriate in front of company. 

“Hi,” Crowley whispers, grinning.

“Hello,”  Aziraphale responds. He  smiles fondly.

“You know she’s just talking rubbish.”

“Yes, I am aware. You poured her drinks too strong.”

“Meh, she’ll survive, and I’ll yell at her tomorrow about her lack of etiquette. You know I love everything about you, right down to your horrific tartan socks.”

“I know, and my socks are not horrific. Just...old fashioned.” He wiggles his feet , showing off said tartan socks for  emphasis.

Crowley shrugs.  “They’re yours, and you’re mine. Are you ready to go home?”

“Yes, please. She’s about done for the evening, I’m afraid.” They look over at Tracy, who has sunk down sideways in her chair and passed out. Crowley extracts himself from  Aziraphale’s lap and stands, offering his hand to the angel. 

“Great, I’m making old  fashioneds when we get back to my flat.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes as they walk upstairs to leave the apartment. “Isn’t that a little...what does Adam say,  _ on-brand _ for this evening’s conversation, dear?”

Crowley laughs. “Well, yeah, but this version’s got cranberries. Festive,  y’know ?”

And so, there is a demon in his kitchen, watching YouTube videos and making cranberry old  fashioneds at three o’clock in the mornin g on Christmas Day .  Aziraphale sits across the island from him, tartan pajamas and all smiles, waiting for the next version of the drink to be passed to him while they argue over whether Jackson Pollack is a real artist or just a con artist.

“Silly demon.” 

“Old fashioned angel.”

“You like it.”

“I do. How’s the drink?”

“Scrumptious, just like the last four versions. Don’t you think you’ve got it down by now?”

“Yes, it was the  cranberry simple syrup that did it. I’m definitely making these again. Come on,” he says, grabbing  Aziraphale’s hand and heading for the living room, “I’m not done debating the merits of modern art with you.”

“Oh,  you’re never going to win this argument,  Crowley...”


End file.
